


Feet First

by Churbooseanon



Series: Helljumper Helljumper, Give Me A Hand [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bonding, Canon Compliant, Captivity, Helljumper Sarge, M/M, Military Backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington wakes up in a jail cell, a captive of the Federal Army of Chorus. Now he has to be responsible for getting himself, Donut and Sarge out of captivity, reuniting them with their teammates, and getting themselves out of a war they don’t belong in. But maybe he isn’t as alone in this as he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feet First

**Author's Note:**

> I needed Sargington. I needed it serious. And so this is what happened. It's the first in a series of stories following Sarge and Washington through the last two-thirds of the Chorus arc and beyond. So expect more in the future.

_Wake up, Washington. You do nobody any good like this._

The voice, so like one that was once so much a part of him that it could tear him apart into nothingness, jarred Washington from the darkness that wrapped itself around him, a thick and choking blanket of unconsciousness. Pulling himself from it is like clawing at gauze wrapped a hundred times over around his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Claw and scratch and fight for consciousness because anything else meant it was too late. Meant that everything he’d fought for meant nothing anymore. And if he kept his eyes closed he thought maybe the visions would come back. A monster in green and steel standing over him, a sight of what he was, might be again. 

With a full body shudder and a yelp he came conscious into darkness once more, this one softened by a distant light past the bars and down the hall. A jail cell. Well, that explained some things, but really it explained nothing at all. Groaning he pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached up to rub at his eyes. 

He had no helmet. 

It wasn’t until his still armored hands made it to his face that the salient little detail even occurred to him. No helmet. Bars. Yet still he was left his power armor and… His eyes cast about, wondering if there were weapons. No guns, that wasn’t surprising. Locus would have disarmed him on the spot. Still, when his hands brushed over the usual spots and he found no hint of his knives, he had to wonder just how thorough the Federal Army soldiers were. 

“Relax, Wash,” a voice, low and gritty and definitely far beyond familiar, said as Wash started to check the places he hid knives in his greaves. Sarge. Immediately Wash twisted, and what he found was the other soldier there, still fully armored, resting with his back against a cot that Donut was stretched out on, his pink armor really looking more like a lightish-red in the darkness of the cell. 

“Relax?” Wash demanded, and while he hated the squeak his voice came out in, he didn’t care to rein himself in at that moment. “Yeah, Sarge, sure. I’ll fucking relax. Right after I get us out of this cell, through unknown numbers of hostile forces, and reunited with our men.”

“I would remind you that you opted to put a pile of rubble between us and them,” Sarge reminded Wash as he pushed to his feet and crossed to Wash. 

As the man moved he reached up and pulled off his helmet, leaving his face bare in the dim light of the cell. The older man looked tired, worn around the edges in a way that Wash hadn’t seen from him since the first little bit of time after the UNSC had let them walk away from that frozen cliff where the Meta, Texas, and Epsilon had all been lost. The long drive back to Valhalla had been executed with Wash and Donut sitting in the back of one Warthog and the older soldier in the back of the other, his helmet off and his body sagging with clear weariness. Now those same lines, those same dark circles hung under his eyes, standing out with an almost glaring intensity. They were nearly, Wash thought, a mirror of his own. Perhaps the stress of the last few days was getting to him nearly as much as it was for Wash. But no, that didn’t make a lot of sense. From all that Wash had ever seen of the man, he wasn’t the sort to get too caught up in worrying about the future. Give him a shotgun and a Warthog and he was content, if not downright happy. 

“Here,” Sarge said, setting his helmet down, its lights on, as he sat by Wash. “Let me take a look.”

It was only when the other man spoke that Wash realized his neck felt strange. Now, with those words, he could feel the tell tale way medical tape caught on the short hairs on the back of his neck, could sense the weight of the heavy gauze over his skin. Immediately his hands moved, frantic to pull the fabric away, pull it from over the ports of his neural lattice. His fingers itched, remembering the voice in his head, remembering the last time the area had been treated like a wound. He wanted to reach up, to scratch and claw until he could tear the chip free, pull Epsilon from him before the AI could tear him apart. Compulsion demanded he scratch and tear and rend, to keep himself free. To keep himself sane.

When had the last time he could consider himself truly sane been? 

Hands, stronger than he thought they should have been, caught his wrists, pulling them away from the implied wound. Half a moment Wash marvelled at the strength, something he had never known about the Red Team leader. A corner of his mind offered up a joke he would have made once. ‘All the better to carry Red Team with,’ a voice that used to belong to him, before Epsilon and before the Dockyards on some unimportant planet, teased. But that was neither here nor there, and he’d never let the words fall from his lips. Instead he thought of the strength, let it remind him of Carolina, of North, of Maine before he was anything other than Wash’s best friend. 

He could pull away from them, Wash told himself, but he didn’t struggle. Epsilon was with Carolina, somewhere away from here. Epsilon was gone and he was free and there was nothing to pull from the mangled remains of his conscious mind. Nothing physical anyway. The shards in his head were all metaphorical. The pains all remembered. The only way fingers could tear them from him would be to kill him, and clearly the Feds hadn’t done that. Yet. So Wash didn’t struggle, didn’t argue. He just let the older man pull, and when his hands were in his lap, he didn’t move them despite Sarge letting go. 

“What happened?” he allowed himself to ask as Sarge moved behind him. He closed his eyes, seeing no purpose in vision at the moment, and as he waited for his answer, he listened to the sound of gloves coming off and being set aside. 

“Well,” Sarge said, his voice pitched toward quiet, but in a way that carried. Clearly the man wasn’t worried about their captors hearing him. More likely he didn’t want to wake Donut. Still, there was an implication in that pitch to Washington. Sarge, the paranoid old fool, wasn’t concerned about being overheard. Either the Feds weren’t bothering to watch them closely, or he had nothing to say that would be risky to have the enemy hear. “From what I can tell, your plan managed to keep Simmons, Tucker, Caboose and that mercenary out of enemy hands. Oh, and Grif too, but I’m not going to hold that one against you, Blue.”

“Of course not,” Wash sighed, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. He knew that getting too annoyed made him tense, and with the delicate touch Sarge was working the bandaging back with, he didn’t want to make anything worse. Someone was only that careful with checking a wound when it was really important. 

“Feds got us, Donut, I think maybe even Lopez. That hulking Locus guy told the soldier that hauled me and Donut along to keep an eye on you. Said you were out bad. But you still weren’t awake when we got to this here forward base. Probably best they brought their Doc in. Crazy women, actually yelled at that mercenary guy for hitting you too hard…”

“I remember,” Wash confirmed as he felt cool air brush the back of his neck. His sigh of relief, though, was stopped by the disapproving tutting of the sim trooper. That… wasn’t a good sign. “Locus knocked me out after everything.” 

He also said a lot of stuff that struck Wash as a touch crazy, but who was he to judge? Sanity, it seemed, wasn’t a buyer’s market these days. 

“Well, their lady doc didn’t seem happy. Something about the implant site being hit too hard. Let me watch while she cut ya open so I could be sure she was treating the prisoner right, and she put stuff straight. Almost died on the table, Blue. Bad form, leaving your command behind like that. Anyway, stitches don’t seem to have come out or torn or anything, so you should be good.” With that the other man put the gauze back and Wash struggled not to panic over its presence. It was there to help, after all. To heal. 

“Wonderful,” Wahs mumbled under his breath. “So we’re separated from our men, held by hostile forces, and if I twist too fast I’ll tear my stitches out and possible bleed into my ports, which can’t be good. What a fucking amazing day!”

“Two days actually, but look at it this way: could be worse.”

Those words were hardly a comfort. In fact, they found Wash pushing to his feet. There was no time at all between standing and pacing. Part of him registered Sarge pulling his gloves back on, but mostly his mind was rushing from point to point. They were captives. His play had apparently worked enough to keep the rest of their teams and those men and women of the New Republic that had come for them safe. Maybe. But here he was, unarmed, caged, and without his helmet or any assurance that the others really were alive. 

“Dammit, if Carolina had been there we could have gotten all of you out of there safely. But no, Boss takes off with our only AI and the fucking camo unit, and doesn’t even leave word of why. What was she thinking?”

That she didn’t want to say goodbye. That she hated goodbyes. No. No, Wash refused to go down that road again. Nothing good came of it anymore. Not one thing. In fact, nothing good had come from it before. He had spent too many years struggling against the currents in his head, trying not to be Epsilon or Alpha or Leonard Church. A backslide into the depths of what could charitably be called the worst years of his life was just not happening. Would never happen. No. 

“And now here we are, our friends possibly dead, and the only thing I can do is try to get you and Donut out of here with no weapons, no helmet, and no fucking clue where we are or where we’d even go! Just once I want a damn plan to go right. No fucking improvising or winging it. Just go right and have no one die or get captured and force me to protect them. Is that too fucking much to ask?” 

Normally, worked up into such a mood, nothing could stop Wash’s ranting. Yet, catching sight of Sarge’s face in the light cast by his helmet, Wash was brought to a cold stop. Sure, he’d seen the older soldier’s face rarely enough so that he couldn’t fairly say that it had never been so contorted in rage before. But that was what it was, a strong face with a strong brow and squared jaw sculpted into a classical image of righteous anger as the older man rose, fists clenched at his sides. There was more than anger though, there was pain. Maybe even a touch of grief, but Wash couldn’t be sure in this lighting with a person he didn’t know the expressions of very well. 

“First,” Sarge said, his tone one that spoke of him tightly holding back an angry tirade that would be at Wash’s expense, “Donut has your helmet. Doc said not to put yours back on just yet, and the kid sleeps better with something to hold on to. Two Grifs, one bullet.”

Wash didn’t correct him on the saying, just watched, muscles tensed, as the older man crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Second, your plan was a good one. Damn top notch if you ask me. Got as many men out of there as you could, covered their retreat masterfully. Ain’t easy to pull any good out of a situation like we were in. And third of all,” here Sarge’s expression morphed to one of pure, and deep, indignation, “you aren’t alone getting us out of here and I sure don’t need protecting. I didn’t join up yesterday, Agent Washington. I’ve been in the military for a damn long time, and I know how to take care of me and mine. Hell, I rescued Simmons from you and your Meta buddy, didn’t I?”

“That doesn’t count,” Wash protested. “And, no offense, seeing as Red Team’s plan is always to charge in on a Warthog, I don’t think I’m going to be looking for tactical advice from you.”

“Ya know anything that starts with ‘no offense’ is always offensive, right?” Sarge demanded. “Fucking hell, you damn Blues think you always have the answers. Only thing worse is a Freelancer, and you’re both. Well, Blue, like I said, you don’t gotta take care of me.”

“Give me a break,” Wash rolled his eyes. “You’re a simulation soldier, a cast off that wasn’t good enough to be cannon fodder and so PFL picked you up and…”

“I helped you take down that program and the things that came from it. On three occasions. More than proven myself to a young upstart in fancy armor like you. I’ve been fighting since before…”

“I was born,” Wash finished, his voice dismissive. He’d seen the man’s portfolio. Sarge wasn’t actually old enough for that to be true. “Yeah, real accomplishment. Probably never seen a real fight.”

That got a snort of derision from Sarge, and as Wash watched, the older man started to peel off pieces of his armor. It was such a strange response that Wash wasn’t quite sure what to do but stop and stare. As he watched the pile of red armor built up until Sarge could start peeling off his undersuit. Even though the older man didn’t bring it down much past his shoulders, there was a world of hurt to be seen, writ plainly on the older man’s skin. Bullet wounds and the jagged tracing of a near miss from a Needler round. Cuts and burns and what looked like a welt from a poorly healed plasma burn. These were the scars of a soldier in the thick of things, not some bystander. 

Those, though, weren’t what Sarge meant to show off, apparently, because he turned, presenting his left shoulder, on which the logo of the UNSC was inked, a popular tattoo worn by many soldiers. Then, slowly, the man turned, presenting his other shoulder and other tattoo, a far rarer and much more impressive one. Where the UNSC logo was almost always done in black or gray, this one was a splash of bright color against the man’s tanned arm. The main color was a yellow that nearly matched the accents on Wash’s armor, shaped in an angular sort of way that no military man could mistake as anything but a drop pod. Wash knew the shape well, had shut his best friend into one on the way to find Connie, despite the big man’s fear of heights. The middle of the tattoo was dominated by a crimson skull crowned with flame, the color of this matching Sarge’s armor exactly. Near the bottom was a banner, proudly announcing ODST in large block letters the same yellow as the pod. And written below it in careful black lines were the Chinese characters Wash knew well from the way they had been emblazoned on the right pauldron of Florida’s rarely used full loadout armor. ‘Complete badass’ they were supposed to read. Whether they did or not was another story altogether, but everyone knew what those words really meant. 

“You were a helljumper,” Wash said in shock, reaching out before he could stop himself and running his fingers over the markings. “You were an ODST during the war?”

“Damn fucking right,” Sarge answered, leaving the tattoo there, not shrinking from the touch. “We weren’t no magic bullet like them SPARTANs or you Freelancers, but we did our part. Fought our fight. Thought those fancy files your Project kept on us had that sorta info in it. Should have all my medals and decorations noted. But this? Means I always know how to do my job. Ain’t no pushover, Wash. Not even at my age. Still know how to find my way into and through a fight.”

“Please, don’t say feet first,” Wash had to chuckle. As he pulled his fingers back from Sarge’s shoulder, the older soldier started to pull his undersuit back to rights. 

“What?” Sarge demanded as he got the suit back in place and started to reach for his armor pieces. “No, of course not. Only applies when dropping, and we ain’t on a ship. Don’t be stupid. On the ground you go shotgun first. Or maybe Grif first. Good meat shield.”

Wash chuckled again at that. But after a moment the mirth fell flat. Former ODST or not, that didn’t improve their situation one bit. Sure, maybe he respected the man a touch more, but they were unarmed and trapped with nothing but their armor. How was this going to get… 

The whole of his train of thought was derailed when Sarge, back in only his chestplate, placed a hand on his shoulder. There was a warm squeeze that made Wash take a deep breath, calming himself down. 

“First time I had command in a bad situation, two of my green troopers didn’t make it down alive. Targeting failure. One pod scraped another pre-atmo. Tore the coating open. Kid fried on his way down. Other one got thrown enough off course to land in a building. She made it out, only to be crushed as the structure collapsed around her. Last drop I went on… I was the only survivor.”

For a minute Wash gaped at him. “Was… that supposed to make me feel better?” he squeaked. 

“Just sayin’, you haven’t lost a man you were in charge of yet, Wash. Enviable record given all we’ve been through, especially considering those Tex-bots, and the battle we just went through, and Carolina putting a gun to Tucker’s head. Now just get your mind onto the problem at hand. Don’t go borrowing trouble when you’ve already got enough on your plate. And no matter what happens, I’ve got your back. Even if you are a dirty blue.”

With that Wash had to sit down. He watched, silent and shocked at the not-quite pep talk from the man he had spent years grossly underestimating and unfairly disrespecting. As there was nothing to see but Sarge or the sleeping Donut, Wash let himself watch the older, more experienced soldier replace his armor piece by piece. He moved with a quiet efficiency that was impressive in its own way. There was familiarity in every motion, and Wash could respect that. Here was a man that was used to gearing up no matter what happened or how he felt about it. A man who had to have an impressive military service record before he even volunteered to be a helljumper. Once this man would have been the pinnacle of respect and awe for enlisteds. Everyone knew what men like Sarge signed up for. If only they knew what little sometimes remained for those that survived. Wash found himself wondering what could lead one of their illustrious number into the ranks of PFL’s simulation troopers. But maybe, he thought, he didn’t want to know at all. Wash had, after all, likely lost fewer people he considered to be friends and family than the man before him had. 

How had he never seen it before? Was he just not looking? How had he recognized the potential in Tucker but failed to acknowledge the experience in Sarge? Maybe, if they got out of here, if they found their friends, he’d try to see if they knew more about the older man’s history. But that was a thought for later. The way Sarge settled his helmet back on seemed to mark the proper end to Wash’s speculations. So he just watched, silent and with a still mind, as Sarge checked the seals on his armor and his undersuit. 

The question slipped from his lips, unbidden, as he heard footsteps approaching the cell and he watched Sarge go to fetch his helmet from Donut’s arms. 

“Aren’t you afraid of heights?” he asked. 

And as his helmet was tossed to him, the answer came with an amused chuckle. 

“Pretty much.”

“Why do it then?” 

There was a moment of silence as white clad soldiers stopped in front of their cell. “Well, Wash, there ain’t no amount of training that makes the fear any better. But the training teaches you to climb in anyway. Gotta keep fighting.”

“Feet first?” Wash asked, standing and donning his helmet as Sarge roused Donut. 

“All of you come to the bars, one at a time. Put your hands through the slot,” a soldier commanded. As Wash moved to obey, knowing he’d be handcuffed, Sarge’s answer came to him from behind. An answer wrapped in laughter rich enough that it made Wash’s chest ache for no good reason. 

“Of course, Wash,” Sarge said in that laughter. “Feet first into hell.”


End file.
